Harry Potter and the DASBA
by schweigende
Summary: Takes place summer before Harry’s third year, when Harry is staying at the Leaky Cauldron. The Diagon Alley Small Business Association is eagerly looking forward to some quality Potter-watching, but they aren't too impressed with what they see....
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Notes: Takes place summer before Harry's third year, when Harry is staying at the Leaky Cauldron. The Diagon Alley Small Business Association is eagerly looking forward to some quality Potter-watching, but they aren't too impressed with what they see....

Warnings: None. Except I may take a few liberties with HP canon; it's been a while since I read PoA.

Categories: General/ humor

Rating: T for possible language later on

Harry Potter and the Diagon Alley Small Business Association

Prologue

In some places of the world, it is said that pubs are sacred places: ideological differences are left outside, and bartenders are discreet confidants, who listen with a sympathetic ear and a closed mouth. People feel secure in trusting their neighborhood pub owner, who knows to maintain an impartial silence, keeping his patrons' secrets to himself and never interfering in their lives outside his sacred realm.

In some places of the world, that may be true. Fortunately for our hero, the Wizarding World is not such a place.

oOo

Inside a small pub on the corner of Charing Cross Road in London, a young teenager sat talking with a balding, toothless man. Harry Potter had perched rather nervously on the edge of his rickety chair at first, worried about offending Tom, the proprietor of the Leaky Cauldron (truthfully, he was also a bit concerned about whether his chair might maliciously decide to demonstrate its rickety-ness by dumping him on his bum). But Tom's confiding and kindly manner had quickly put Harry at ease (about the man; Harry was still a bit wary of the potentially evil chair).

"Butterbeer, Harry?" Tom asked jovially.

"Huh?" Harry expressed his confusion eloquently. Seeing the beginnings of a frown on the older man's face, Harry hastened to explain. "What's a-- what did you call it? A butterbeer? Sorry, I've never heard of that. I don't think Muggles drink that. But, ah, I'm sure it's great. If it's not a problem."

_Idiot._ Harry winced internally. _Could you sound any more retarded? Tom probably thinks you're mentally deficient or something._ As Tom got up from their table to fetch them both refreshments (at least Harry assumed butterbeer was some type of drink. For all he knew, he'd just volunteered to strip naked and bathe in some weird potion), Harry let out a frustrated breath. It was nerve-wracking, trying to pretend he belonged in the Wizarding World, when truthfully he didn't understand every third sentence out of Tom's mouth. Harry looked up as the bartender sat back down, bringing with him two bottles of unknown liquid. Gathering up his courage, Harry braced himself and took a sip.

Then another sip. Then a gulp.

"Wow, that's really good," he said in some shock. Maybe it was the thought about potions, but Harry realized he hadn't actually expected to like it. _I mean, butter and beer? That sounds like an odd combo,_ he thought. Belatedly, he thanked Tom for the drink.

"Any time, Harry. My pleasure," the pub owner replied, before effortlessly directing their conversation back to the previous topic. Harry shifted nervously. Although Tom's voice was casual, his eyes were sharp and he was watching Harry closely. _What does he expect to see?_

Harry Potter had checked into a room at the Leaky Cauldron two days ago, after a disaster in which he (_accidentally, I swear!_) blew up his Uncle Vernon's odious sister, Marge. Having been summarily kicked out of the Dursleys' household for the summer, Harry was forced to find temporary lodgings in the magical world, as the Dursleys were decent, upstanding folk who didn't hold with such freakishness; were they the only ones who could see that the only response in the face of such unnatural chaos was strict discipline? It should be mentioned that discipline to the Dursleys was a somewhat barbaric concept involving starvation, imprisonment, humiliation, and the occasional beating for variety.

So Harry was actually quite pleased with his current surroundings. He had a bed to sleep in, with actual blankets, enough food to eat, and, best of all, people who didn't view him as a freak. All in all, Harry thought this was shaping up to be the best summer of his life—assuming he didn't screw it up with his usual luck. Harry was quite determined to avoid offending Tom, who he had sussed out as the adult "in charge" of him for the time being. Unfortunately, he had already tried all his Dursley-approved "civilized and absolutely, completely normal" techniques of good behavior, such as offering to scrub the floors with his toothbrush or to cook Tom a four-course meal of his choice, but Tom had just given him an odd look. Panicking, Harry decided that he needed more information in order to determine the best course of action, so he started asking Tom about the pub and how it operated.

"Oh, the Cauldron's not a family business, son," Tom said, laughing a bit. "I bought it fair and square from the previous owner, some fifty years ago now. Made my old man pretty peeved with me, you know. He was a musician—played the pipe, actually—and had been planning a father and son music act touring the pubs of the Wizarding World."

Harry sat in silence for a moment, trying to process the mental image of Tom the barkeeper dancing a jig and playing a pipe of some kind. Then his brain caught up with what he had heard. "Wait, the pubs of the Wizarding World? As in, more than one?"

"Well, of course! You didn't think the Cauldron was the only pub in all of wizarding England, did you?"

"Actually, I sort of did," said Harry. _Actually, I hadn't really thought about it at all_, he thought but wasn't stupid enough to say_. _ "So are there many pubs in England? Wizarding England, I mean?"

"Of—well, no, not really. Not in England, that is. Not now. Used to be one in Brighton, but it got taken out during Grindelwald's time. And then there was one up north—but Death Eaters hit it some twenty years back. But there's still The Three Broomsticks and The Hog's Head up in Hogsmeade, and The Stag over in Godric's Hollow—"

"Godric's Hollow? Where's that?" Harry asked curiously. He'd heard of Hogsmeade before, of course, but he'd thought it was the only Wizarding Village in Great Britain. Was there another wizarding town that he hadn't heard of?

"Where's—I'm sorry, did you just ask where _Godric's Hollow_ is? You, Harry Potter, asked _me_ where it is?" Tom made a strangled noise and his face turned a bit red. Harry began to worry, as this was usually the facial distortion his Uncle Vernon took on after hearing about flying motorcycles and blue wigs. He cautiously took a step or two away, to edge around one of the dirty tables. Clearly, this was some other wizarding thing that nobody had bothered to tell him. Like, don't say You-Know-Who's name, Harry; that makes people stare at you in fear. Don't talk to snakes, Harry; that's Dark. Don't ask about Godric's Hollow, Harry; that makes one of the only wizards who's actually been nice to you nearly have a heart attack and stare at you like you're a freak.

Quickly, Harry began trying to do damage control, visions of being thrown out of the Leaky Cauldron onto the streets of London dancing absurdly through his mind. "Er, never mind. I mean, uh, I need to go… finish my history essay. Yeah, right now. Immediately. History's really important, you know."

Harry darted toward the Diagon Alley entrance from the Cauldron but paused as he was about to leave. "Tom? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you mad—honest. I just—well, there's just a lot of things I don't know about the Wizarding World, and I'm always saying stuff I shouldn't and asking stuff everyone knows not to ask, but I swear I didn't mean to make you upset…"

Harry trailed off and looked earnestly at Tom, whose face had fortunately lost some of its splotchiness. Harry really would have preferred to just leave quickly—in his experience, conversations like this with adults _never_ went well—but he needed to make sure Tom wasn't going to hold a grudge over whatever taboo it was that Harry had broken. A small, stubborn corner of Harry's mind insisted that he hadn't done anything wrong and that if he hadn't run from Uncle Vernon's irrational wrath toward all things freakish, he certainly wasn't going to run from Tom. (O_f course_, his mind helpfully reminded him, _you did run from the Dursleys. That's why you're here in the first place_.)

Harry watched warily as Tom closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The older man's face settled into unnaturally stiff lines, but when he spoke, his voice was gentle. "No, Harry, you've nothing to apologize for. I'm not angry at you."

Tom's expression hardened and he repeated with quiet emphasis, "I'm not angry at _you_."

oOo

After Harry's rather precipitous departure to Diagon Alley, Tom grabbed a dirty rag and began polishing the clean dishes (to properly "season" them, he always explained to dubious patrons). It was a mindless task that allowed him to both think and work off some steam.

_Harry Potter—THE Harry Potter—doesn't know where Godric's Hollow is? How can that be?_ Tom had spoken with the boy a decent bit over the last couple of days, and while the savior of the Wizarding World was certainly a bit eccentric, he didn't strike Tom as mentally deficient. And Tom was pretty sure that even a mentally deficient lad would remember the name of the town where his parents had brutally murdered by the Darkest Dark Lord to exist since the last Dark Lord died and where the lad himself had become the Boy-Who-Lived.

Clearly, _someone_ had made a major screw-up at some point. Tom had a lot of experience with screw-ups. There was the time he had told his new house elf to purchase the ingredients for 100 servings of shepherd's pie, only for her to bring him 100 shepherds, each carrying a pie. Then there was the time the Ministry had tried to cut corners while updating their apparition wards, only to wind up accidentally nullifying magic in the entire area for three hours. He'd heard all about it from one of his regulars. In the end, the Ministry had actually had to hire curse breakers and a goblin team of warders from Gringotts to fix the problem—and boy, hadn't that been an embarrassment.

But still, in each case, the screw up was temporary. It lasted a couple hours or a couple days. But _this!_ How could the Boy-Who-Lived not know even the most basic information about his own life and about wizarding history? Tom felt a surge of fury run through him again at the thought that this boy, who had saved them all from those terrible years of Voldemort's rise, should be left to grow up deliberately ignorant—among Muggles, if he recalled correctly—as though he'd served his purpose and could just be shunted off to the side like a dirty cauldron at the end of a Potions class.

Tom put his rag down and stared at the many stains and scuffs on the table like a Diviner looking at tea leaves. He knew he wasn't the most quick-witted of wizards, but slowly his brain began piecing together snippets of conversations and gossip overheard during the last ten years and connecting that information with what he'd observed of the boy first-hand.

Tom didn't like the image he was getting.

The question was, what should he do? He had no proof of anything, and even if he did, he wasn't some highbrow Malfoy to go challenging the tall-hats and the long-beards of the upper echelons of government. But something had to be done—Tom simply couldn't live in a world where the Boy-Who-Lived didn't even know what a butterbeer was.

So something had to be done—but what?

oOo

Author's Notes: This is a combination of two plot bunnies that have been circling each other in my brain for a while now. The plot will focus on Harry learning to interact with the Wizarding World, although there will probably be some action later in the story. Chapter 1 will introduce the Diagon Alley Small Business Association members as they hatch a grand plan to save their savior.

I'm aware that I made up some wizarding idioms to try to give Tom's point of view a more distinctive voice. Please let me know if anything doesn't make sense.

Reviews and Suggestions welcome.


	2. Introducing The DASBA

Disclaimer: not mine.

Harry Potter and the Diagon Alley Small Business Association

Chapter 1

Frowning fiercely, Fidget Flourish figured fate fiendishly flattened any facsimile of fun from this forum.

He didn't know what he had been thinking. Why had he agreed to come to this meeting? His father had suggested he might find it entertaining, and bored by the endless routine of helping snot-nosed school kids find _The Standard Book of Spells_, grade whatever, he had agreed. His father, the renowned Flibbert Flourish, owner of Flourish and Blotts bookstore and purveyor of knowledge to the untutored and occasionally unwashed masses, had conned him into getting up at seven o'clock in the freaking morning to listen to a group of septuagenarian windbags jabber away about why _their_ store was the most important in Diagon Alley.

Fidget was a little bit bitter at the moment.

_Well_, he thought speculatively, eyeing the lithe form of Tamara Twilfitt (co-owner of Twilfitt and Tattings Tailoring), _at least it's not a total loss. Someone here's got some… aesthetic appeal._

Not that he was stupid enough to say something like that out loud. He'd had a few run-ins with the sardonic seamstress, and knew when retreating with dignity (or without dignity) was the only option. Still, a wizard could dream.

His slightly more pleasant thoughts were interrupted once again by the nasal twang of his personal Diagon Alley dementor, Madam Fantasia, who was the sole proprietor of Diagon's only tea room, Tea and Destiny (Drink your Tea! Embrace your Fate! All in one convenient location!). Really, why couldn't that woman simply shut up? Or, failing that, get trapped by a lethifold and just disappear?

It was like she couldn't do anything right. Fidget sighed.

Right now it sounded like she was prattling on about the Potter kid again. That was the other reason Fidget had agreed to give up his morning lie-in and come to the Diagon Alley Small Business Association bi-monthly forum. He was interested in hearing the latest Potter gossip. Hell, who wasn't? The kid was some kind of savior, and this was the first time he'd stayed long enough at the Alley for anyone to get a chance to actually talk to him.

Unfortunately, Fidget had thus far been disappointed. Potter was no more interesting than any of the multitude of other school brats clogging up the aisles of his store. Well, maybe a bit more interesting. Why did he wear those rags? And why hadn't anyone bought him some less hideous glasses? And there was that wary look in his eyes….

Fidget would swear the boy had been trying to blend in to the shadows as he shopped for schoolbooks; he certainly didn't seem comfortable with his horde of adoring fans. In all fairness, Fidget didn't think he himself would have been comfortable with some of those fans, particularly not the matronly witch who had breathlessly asked the Boy-Who-lived to autograph her skin. Fidget had left hearing range before she explained exactly which area of her anatomy she had chosen as a shrine to the wizarding savior, but he remembered snickering at the panicked expression on the boy's face.

"Oh, my dears, there is tragedy—_darkness_, I tell you—shrouding that boy's aura. His arrogance will be his downfall!" Madam Fantasia pretended to swoon dramatically. She had always felt that swooning lent the appropriate air of drama to predictions of doom.

"He's really not arrogant at all," Tom said soothingly. Perhaps Fidget was only imagining the glint of homicidal contempt in the pub owner's eyes. "Quite the opposite in fact. He's very modest."

"I was a bit surprised," Fidget decided that speaking up was worth it if it prevented Madam Fantasia from talking. "Honestly, I was expecting him to be a bit of a an arrogant ponce."

"I beg your pardon?!" said Reginald Ponce angrily. Ponce was their travel supervisor, and as he liked to remind them frequently, overseeing Diagon Alley's main floo station and apparition area was a heavy responsibility. Perhaps it was the weight of this responsibility that caused him to be a bit sensitive about his name.

Or it could be the fact that Fidget had taken to charming his voice to sound like a five-year old girl every day for an entire summer a few years back.

"Master Fidget, I suggest you show a bit more respect for our savior," Madam Malkin said frostily. "Having had the opportunity to serve the young Potter personally, I can assure you, he is not in any way arrogant or—er, effeminate. I am sure he will be a credit to our society as he matures into his status."

"Well…" began Tom.

"Actually…" said Florean Fortescue hesitantly.

"Of course the lad's not a ponce. No offence, Ponce," snorted Bill Bludgins contemptuously. Bludgins was the owner of Quality Quidditch Supplies and often offered a unique perspective on life in the Alley. "Haven't you heard? The boy's a star quidditch player. Youngest seeker in a century! No way in the world a boy like that could be weak or delicate. Quidditch brings out the man in a boy!"

"And in girls?" asked Tamara Twilfitt archly. It should be stated that almost everything Tamara does is done in an arch manner, so let us simply assume from now on, that when she does something, she does so archly.

"Er, what?" Bludgins seemed a bit lost by this conversational shift.

"Does quidditch 'bring out the man' in female athletes too? How interesting. I'll have to pass that on to Gwenod Jones. I believe you know Gwenod? The captain of the Holyhead Harpies?"

"Let's not be hasty now," Bludgins quickly said, beginning to sweat a bit. "All I'm saying is that quidditch puts the hair on your… er, it takes ball… that is, it builds character. That's it, character. So of course, the youngest seeker in a century must have a strong sense of—"

"Machismo?"

"Exactly! Wait—what?" Bludgins wiped his face with a handkerchief. He hated it when Tamara Twilfitt talked to him. He was always left with a vague impression that he had made an idiot of himself—but that was ridiculous, of course.

"Regardless of Mr. Potter's personality make-up, I think we need to address his security. I'm not sure how safe it is for him to be wandering around the Alley with Sirius Black on the loose." Reginald Ponce tried to redirect the conversation before it turned violent, particularly as he was sitting in between the two combatants.

Fortunately, Reginald's comment had the desired effect, and conversation devolved into the usual platitudes about 'how-awful' and 'that-evil-man.' It was amazing how many of those present had never trusted Sirius Black, thought Fidget.

"It was in his eyes," Madam Fantasia proclaimed portentously. "Right from the very start, there was a shifty look there. I Saw the evil in him, my dears!"

She sighed tragically, with her arm across her brow (that was another trade secret she had learned to emphasize the tragic nature of her gift). "But alas! No one ever listens to the Seer. It is my sad, sad fate."

Everyone paused a moment to show respect for her gift. Or possibly to swallow their bile.

"Getting back on subject, we need to take some precautions to guarantee Mr. Potter's safety. The Ministry has asked for our help on this. While I think it unlikely that an escaped convict could pass unnoticed in Diagon Alley, it would be wiser for Mr. Potter to have some sort of a schedule. Nothing formal, we don't need to bother him with this, but we ought to make sure that one of us has an eye on him at all times," Tom said seriously.

"Don't you think that's a bit extreme?" Fidget drawled sardonically. "I'm not saying that it's not a good idea to blanket a teenage boy with cloying adult adulation and constant spying, but… well, it's not a good idea. Don't you think that might provoke some sort of rebellion?"

Flibbert Flourish nodded in agreement. "I don't know about Harry—Mr. Potter, that is—but I think most of us would go batty under such constant scrutiny. Are you sure that's the only option, Tom?"

Tom shrugged. "I don't like it either, but it's that or a Ministry guard on Mr. Potter at all times. I had to work hard to convince Fudge that we would be able to protect Mr. Potter ourselves; he wanted the boy practically under lock and key."

Tamara Twilfitt snorted delicately. "Yes, because the Ministry has proven _so_ effective at containing wizards lately. And really, it's only fair that when one prisoner breaks out, the Ministry gets another."

There were many angry murmurs at this. Fidget looked at Tamara admiringly. Before she spoke, many of the assembled witches and wizards had looked like they agreed with the Minister's plan to cage the boy, even though they themselves would never have stood such treatment. Tamara had a rare gift at making people face their own hypocrisy. _It's probably why she's not married yet_, Fidget mused. _Still, a man might be willing to put up with a lot to be married to a witch like her._

"Yes, but getting back on subject _again_, I would like to bring up one possible solution. First, though, I'd like to hear your impressions of the boy based _solely_ on what you've observed so far," Tom said. Fidget narrowed his eyes. This was getting interesting; the old man clearly had something up his sleeve.

There was a moment of silence as the business owners looked around uncomfortably.

"Honestly, I was a bit disappointed," Florean Fortescue spoke up reluctantly. "I know he's just a lad, but I'd expected him to be a bit more impressive. He seems content to just sit and eat ice cream—which I've got no problem supplying him with; it's good business. But overall, he just… Well, take his history essay. He'd left out some pretty basic facts about the witch burnings. I don't know if he's lazy or just ignorant, but…."

He shrugged unhappily. There was a general sort of agreement among the assembly. Harry Potter was the Boy-Who-Lived, but he seemed to struggle with the most rudimentary tasks.

Out of the corner of his eye, Fidget saw the beginnings of a sneer on Tamara's face, and knew she was about to say something scathing about idiots who clearly didn't understand what "raised by muggles" meant. _This could be my opportunity to impress her_, he thought.

"I admit, I was disappointed too, but not for the same reasons," he lied—well, fudged the truth a bit—smoothly. "I don't expect him to know much about wizarding history; after all he was raised by muggles."

Not that ignorance was in any way excusable, especially not when the boy was staying a few doors down from the Wizarding World's premier bookstore.

"I suppose I was—confused. The boy seems to be a mystery." He related his earlier thoughts about the boy's clothing, glasses, and shyness. "It's like he doesn't have any idea of how to act or even dress in public."

Madam Malkin frowned. "I always knew it was a bad idea sending that boy to muggles. They may be his family, but at the end of the day, they're still just muggles. That poor boy—who does he have to teach him about his proper place in society when he's surrounded day in and day out by people who aren't even a part of that society? And the muggle things they're teaching him! Why those clothes he wears—I can't abide muggle fashions!"

"They're not."

At this, everyone in the room turned to face a heretofore silent member of the group. Adam Brown was a muggleborn who had had the brilliant idea to create an apothecary named after potions tools and ingredients rather than himself, thus giving his Slug & Jiggers Apothecary an air of authenticity (while bypassing any awkward questions his parentage may have raised among the bigots). The fact that part of his store name was shared by a renowned pureblood potions author was purely a coincidence, of course. Naturally, most of the people in the group, when faced with such brilliant business sense, responded with scorn. Adam Brown was tolerated at the DASBA meetings, but he certainly wasn't welcome.

"They're not what?" Madam Malkin asked shortly.

"They're not muggle fashions. I still go out in the muggle world pretty often. His clothes aren't the fashion there either. They're worn out and they don't fit right. And no muggle uses a shoestring as a belt. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was desperately poor and shopping in a rubbish bin or a bad thrift store."

Exclamations of shock greeted this statement, but Fidget was surprised to see Tom nodding, as though this only confirmed what he had already suspected.

"The Potters aren't poor," Madam Malkin said severely.

Fidget decided to chime in. "I heard there were rumors of fabulous wealth. Some people say they even have a vault to rival the Malfoys."

By some people, of course, he meant that he had just made up the rumor himself.

"That, Mr. Fidget, is hogwash. The Potters were a decent, middle class family, but they weren't high society. That's one reason everyone loves the boy so much: he's one of us," Madam Malkin explained. Fashionista Malkin had spent several decades designing robes for the rich and not-so-rich, so if anyone knew the ins-and-outs of wizarding society, it was she.

"What about the rumors regarding the Wrayburn fortune?" Beatrice Blotts piped up.

"Wrayburn? You mean Roseanna Wrayburn, the famous singer?" Mr. Flourish the elder asked curiously.

"Yes, I heard that since she had no living family, she changed her will shortly after You-Know-Who's fall, so that her money wouldn't go to the Ministry. She was heard to say she intended to leave it to the 'one who had saved us all.' And since she died about five years ago now," Beatrice trailed off suggestively.

If anything, the room exploded with even more shock. The Wrayburn fortune was rumored to be considerable in both quantity and scandal.

"We're getting off topic again," Tom said, and Fidget admired the way he sounded so determinedly patient. "The question is not how rich Harry is. That shouldn't affect how he needs to be protected from Black."

He looked over the witches and wizards who were shame-facedly trying to pretend they hadn't been thinking about "helping" the boy with his fortune.

"It _is_ important, Tom. Not to Sirius Black, particularly, but to us. This boy is going to have a position in society to uphold, and if he has inherited the Wrayburn fortune, then that position becomes all the more influential. But he will never be a credible patron if he continues to dress and act in such an… eccentric… fashion. I don't know what his advisors were thinking," Madam Malkin tutted disapprovingly.

"And that, Madam, is precisely the problem," Tom said with the air of one who had finally, after an hour's worth of patience, herded the conversation to where he wanted it to be. "I don't think the boy _has_ advisors. Or tutors, or anybody. From a few things he's said, he didn't even know he was a wizard until he got his Hogwarts letter."

Fidget grinned as, once again, exclamations of shock and horror echoed around the room. His father had been right after all; this was exciting. Depriving a child of his magical heritage was an unthinkable crime to most wizards and witches, who barely considered muggles human. That the Boy-Who-Lived had suffered such a fate—well, children were precious to the Wizarding World, and this child more than most.

Fidget wouldn't be surprised if the room stormed the Wizengamot by the end of the day, demanding revolution. He grinned again. _Viva la Revolution!_

Eventually the furor died down enough that Tom could talk again. "Look, I don't know how or why this situation has happened, but it's a sad truth that Black's escape might be the best thing that has happened to that boy. We have a chance to help him—not only that, we have _orders_ from the Minister himself, to help the boy. Who's to say we can only help keep him safe? Why can't we use this opportunity to help teach him the things we each think he needs to know?"

Madam Malkin nodded vigorously. "Just send him my way, Tom. A few days with me, and he'll have an entirely new appreciation for wardrobe! I'll teach him everything I know about proper dress for different levels of society. By the time I'm done, he'll know the difference between a Malfoy and a Greengrass by dress alone! I'll even throw in some complimentary robes for him. We have a duty to him, after all."

Seeing the avaricious gleam in her eye, Fidget repressed a snort and saw Tamara doing the same thing. Being able to claim Harry Potter as a favored client or even a patron of her shop would more than outweigh the cost of a few robes. Many of the proprietors clearly had the same thought and eagerly jumped on the bandwagon.

Conversation in the room exploded like erumpet horns during mating season.

"He could come help out in my shop for sure," Bill Bludgins loudly volunteered. "I could give him some tips on professional quidditch, maybe even arrange for him to meet some of my old teammates so he can see how other celebrities act in public."

"I'd be happy to have him spend some time in my shop," Fauna Pevensee, the owner of Magical Menagerie offered. "He might have a gift for magical creatures, and it would help fill in some of the gaps in his knowledge about the wizarding world. The poor boy probably doesn't even know the difference between a kneazle and a crup at his point."

"No, no, he simply _must_ come to my tea shop so I can help him come to terms with his destiny," Madam Fantasia insisted stridently.

"Well, I think it's important for him to be seen in public, too. He should keep having ice cream at my store every day. Give people a chance to get used to seeing him out and about. Besides, lots of Hogwarts students are going to be visiting in the next couple of weeks. We don't want to deprive Harry of his friends—or of his double-chocolate chip pistachio ice-cream!" Fortescue chuckled appreciatively.

Fidget sat back to enjoy the mayhem. He thought he saw Madam Malkin and Madam Fantasia trying to claw each other, and he was certain that Charlus Pottidge hexed Doc Boot for suggesting that cauldrons offered nothing useful to their savior. Sneakily, he pulled his wand out and started jinxing the room's occupants. His father would be terribly disappointed in him.

With that in mind, he hexed his father to talk in iambic pentameter for the next hour. After all, it was important to keep one's standards up.

Unfortunately, his fun was interrupted when Tom managed to successfully take control of the situation.

"You all make valid points, but we need to decide where Harry should go _first_. Normally I would say we should just ask him, but in this case, I don't think he knows enough at this point to make an informed decision. So, let's consider: who among us has the best chance of giving Harry the background information he needs?"

With that, the Diagon Alley Small Business Association settled in to determine the future of the Boy-Who-Lived.

oOo

A few buildings down, Harry Potter stretched and yawned as he woke up. He smiled and flopped back down on the bed. It was nice to have a quiet, uneventful day to look forward to. He was sure this would be a good day.

oOo

Fidget Flourish gestured for his father and Madam Beatrice to precede him into their shop. He surreptitiously tried to avoid scratching a certain portion of his anatomy, which had been itching incessantly since the meeting.

Apparently, he hadn't been the only one to take advantage of the opportunity for a few well-placed hexes.

_Blast that witch_. He sighed and tried to avoid scratching himself again.

This was not going to be a good day.

oOo

And so the shops on Diagon Alley slowly came to life, and the Alley was filled with a new sense of purpose. Not only were they going to make enormous profits (as usual), today they were going to get the chance to help a lost boy with no one else to turn to.

And perhaps they could even wangle some endorsement deals while they were at it.

oOo

Author's Notes:

1. I know I introduced a lot of new characters here. If anyone has trouble keeping the different storekeepers straight, let me know and I'll put up a list.

2. I'm making up characters as I need them for conversations and plot, so I'm not sticking strictly to canon. At all. Even for the names you recognize from the books, I'm inventing personalities and background pretty much with abandon. What can I say? It's fun. I'm claiming artistic license.

3. I also decided to add a public transit station with fireplaces for floo travel and apparition points. It just didn't make sense to try to have everyone floo into the Leaky Cauldron, or to risk people randomly apparating in on top of each other.

4. Thank you to the readers who took the time to review and those who added my story to their watch or favorites list. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint! Feel free to give comments and suggestions- I welcome all advice and questions.


	3. Books and Basilisks Part 1

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Harry Potter and the Diagon Alley Small Business Association

Books and Basilisks pt 1

oOo

In his room at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry Potter stretched and yawned as he woke up. He smiled and flopped back down on the bed. It was nice to have a quiet, uneventful day to look forward to. He was sure this would be a good day.

oOo

As Harry headed downstairs for breakfast, he was running through his plans for the day. He hadn't written Ron or Hermione for a few days, so he should probably see if Hedwig was around. And he wanted to organize his chocolate frog collection.

He nodded to himself. Sounded like a good plan for the day.

"Morning, Tom," Harry said cheerfully as he headed into the kitchen to serve himself a plate. The two of them had finally come to an agreement over Harry's refusal to "freeload" (despite the fact that he was paying for his room). Tom or his elf would do all the cooking, but Harry would serve himself and wash his own dishes. In the evenings, he also often helped in the kitchen, since even Dikky (the house elf) had trouble keeping up with the evening rush.

"Morning, Harry." Tom smiled from over his cup of tea. "Any plans for the day?"

Harry happily mentioned his intention to write his friends and organize his card collection. When he finished, he saw Tom sigh worriedly.

"What's wrong, Tom?" Harry asked curiously.

"Oh, it's just that I was talking with some of my friends at Flourish and Blotts. Have you met Flibbert and Fidget Flourish? I think Fidget's only about ten years older than you. Anyway, they're short staffed at the bookstore today, and they're having a lot of trouble."

Deep in the recesses of his brain, a warning bell was beginning to sound, but Harry easily ignored it. You could go crazy if you let your brain do the thinking too often.

Tom sighed again. "If only there were some way for them to find some help for the day on such short notice."

Harry was torn. On the one hand, his curiosity and ingrained helpfulness urged him to offer his assistance; on the other hand, he got enough books with Hermione. Harry was really more a man of action than a man of words. Give him a sword over a quill any day.

Still, he should at least ask. "What kind of help do they need?"

"Well, I think they got in some new books. What were they? I think I heard something about original pranks, defensive hexes, quidditch—stuff like that," Tom said.

"Quidditch?" Harry asked with more enthusiasm. "And hexes?"

It'd be nice to show Malfoy a new trick or two. Harry was so caught up in a joyous mental image of simultaneously out-flying and out-dueling his rival that he completely missed the satisfied gleam in Tom's eyes.

"Yes, a whole lot of new books and they just want someone's opinion on what's good and what's not. You know, which books are easiest to understand and the like." Tom coughed quietly. "They may also have a few books on politics, history, and finance that I'm sure you could help with. Nothing major."

"Yeah, that sounds great," Harry said, still stuck in his fantasy of hexing Malfoy bald.

"Excellent!" Tom said lightly. "I'll tell them to expect you shortly then. Best go get ready, lad."

"What, now? Oh, alright." Harry abandoned his breakfast and headed off to prepare for a day at the bookstore.

oOo

When Harry arrived at Flourish and Blotts, he was greeted by an enthusiastic older man whom Harry recognized as Flibbert Flourish, one of the owners.

"Well met, young sir, and come inside, I say;  
This summer's morn appears to be quite warm.  
Inside is cool, and books await your stay.  
Whate'er you—"

"Oh give it a rest, Da. That wasn't even very good—your rhythm was definitely off in a couple places. What's wrong with you? No, don't answer that; I know, you're running out of phrases. Don't worry, the hex should wear off soon." The younger man, who Harry assumed was the Fidget Flourish Tom had mentioned, turned to shake Harry's hand. He started to introduce himself and offer a tour of the store, but suddenly froze and his hips began to twitch as though he had a strange itch. Naturally, this looked a bit odd, so Harry backed away a bit.

Harry turned back toward the older man. It was easier to deal with weird poetry than creepy hip twitching. "A hex, sir? Did someone attack you?"

"It was more in the line of a prank, I think," Fidget jumped in before his father could construct another verse. "We both got hit, actually, but hopefully, the spells should be wearing off within another few minutes."

"What did you get hit with?" Harry asked him warily. Perhaps there was some creepy-making hex. If so, Harry would bet that Snape had gotten a major overdose.

"Er—nothing. I mean, something. I mean, let's see about that tour, shall we? By the way, I'm Fidget Flourish. This is my father, Flibbert. If you look toward the back of the store, you should see a witch with a gray bun and some curly hair things—that's Beatrice Blott, the other owner of the store."

Harry craned his neck to see around the many bookshelves and spotted the witch trying to balance an improbably tall stack of books as she headed to one of the displays She smiled at him from around the stack of books and then suddenly staggered to the left as the books became unbalanced.

"Now, where shall we start?" Fidget rubbed his hands together maniacally, and Harry backed further away. Not just a hex, it seemed. "History? Politics? Finance? What mood are you in today, young sir?"

"Er, Tom mentioned something about quidditch."

Fidget stopped rubbing his hands together and gave Harry a very disappointed look. "Quidditch? Quidditch? Do you have any idea how often we have to cater to puling requests for that plebian sport? We are a store of knowledge! A warehouse of lost treasures of the mind! And you ask for quidditch?!"

Harry shrank away, beginning to think this was a very bad idea. Never mind that Fidget was the closest person to his own age that he'd talked to since his arrival at Diagon Alley. The man was just odd.

"Never mind that, son," Flibbert Flourish jumped in to rescue Harry. His hex had apparently run its course. "Mr. Potter, we can of course direct you to the quidditch section, but first I was hoping you would help us with a little project."

"What's that?" Harry asked cautiously.

"We're trying to put together a list of references for muggleborn and muggle-raised students so that they can get a better understanding of how the Wizarding World works. Not just the broad strokes, but the little details that purebloods would never think about, like why arm holsters are disallowed at formal society events and major quidditch matches."

"They are?" Harry asked in spite of himself. "I didn't know that."

"Yes, it's an old custom. Supposed to prevent both assassination attempts and cheating. An arm holster makes it too easy to just casually slip your wand into your hand, curse your opponent, and then get it back before anyone notices. So at formal balls, political events, and quidditch championships, security has started insisting on leg or waist holsters instead."

"Wow, that's really cool," Harry said. "I didn't even know there were different types of wand holsters. Maybe I should look into getting one."

He saw the two men exchange a significant glance and wondered what it meant, but before he could ask, Mr. Flourish the elder began herding him toward a stack of books. "These are the books we're considering, but we need help organizing them and narrowing the final list down. Do you think you can help?"

Harry looked at the stack of at least twenty books doubtfully. "Look, this sounds really interesting and all, but I'm not good with books. You really need someone like my friend Hermione instead."

"Not good with books?" Mr. Flourish asked. "What do you mean, Mr. Potter?"

"Well, I'm just not. I don't read very fast and a lot of times I don't remember what I do read very much." He sighed forlornly. His sadness wasn't faked; he could see the rest of his carefree summer vacation vanishing before his eyes unless he managed to get himself un-volunteered for this project. "I'm just not that smart. That's why I think you need someone else for this."

"That's very interesting, Mr. Potter." Mr. Flourish sounded as though this were the most fascinating thing he'd heard all day. "Tell me, do you find that reading material before class helps you master it? Or do you do better if your teacher explains how a charm works? Or is it best if the teacher demonstrates the charm and just lets you try it?"

"Oh, the demonstration, definitely," said Harry, simultaneously grateful and worried that Mr. Flourish didn't seem to think he was stupid. "I can pick up new spells pretty quick if I can just see them done, but a lot of times we're just supposed to read about the spells—or worse, potions—and then I just can't picture what the book is talking about."

"That just means you learn by doing. Different people are best suited by different learning styles. I'd wager your friend Hermione is a visual learner if she excels at book learning. But conversely, she probably has more trouble learning a spell she hasn't read about just by watching a demonstration. Am I right?"

"You know, I think you are. I'd never thought about it that way." Harry grinned. Huh. _Maybe I'm not so dumb after all._

As though reading his mind, Mr. Flourish asserted, "It's not a question of intelligence—just of learning style."

He suddenly clapped his hands and Harry jumped. "That being said, reading is a very important skill, and one you can't afford to neglect. I begin to think that this project could help you as much as it will help us."

"But—why? I mean, not to be rude, but if I can just learn by doing stuff, then why do I need to read about it?" Harry asked, bewildered by the sudden reversal.

"There will not always be a teacher around to demonstrate for you, Mr. Potter. Sometimes you have to teach yourself." Mr. Flourish looked at him sternly, and Harry reluctantly nodded. "When that happens, books are your best chance."

"Let me give you an example. Suppose when you head back to your room this evening, you are startled by a thumping noise in your wardrobe. Suddenly, the door opens and a vampire jumps out! What do you do?"

"Wait, why would a vampire be in my wardrobe?"

"I don't know. It's just an example."

"Well, it doesn't make sense. I mean, Dikky cleans the rooms every day; I think she'd notice a vampire in my wardrobe."

"Well, pretend she didn't, Mr. Potter. Explanation or no, there is still a vampire standing in front of you. What will you do?"

"Er, I don't know. Open the windows to let the sunlight in, maybe?" Harry frankly thought this entire example thing was a little ridiculous. He never thought about his actions; he just trusted his instincts. After all, it's not like he'd planned on the sword of Gryffindor or Fawkes, but it had all worked out anyway.

Aside from the nearly dying part. Maybe he should pay more attention to this whole planning thing.

"Ah! But when the sunlight strikes it, it has no effect! Because the creature in front of you is not in fact a vampire at all! It is a boggart, which has taken on the shape of a vampire!" Mr. Flourish seemed thrilled by this sudden twist of events, although Harry didn't find it too impressive. After all, the man was the one who had made up this example in the first place.

"What's a boggart?" he asked with forced patience.

"Exactly my point! Whatever it is, it's standing right in front of you, and it can kill you, I assure you, Mr. Potter. Only if you have knowledge ahead of time can you recognize the situation as it unfolds. Only then can you find a way to defeat your opponent."

Harry tried not to pull his hair out at the man's pompous speech. This was not how he had expected his day to go. He made a mental note to never do Tom a favor again.

In the meantime, he forced himself to consider the bookstore owner's words. A memory flashed through his mind and he began to see what the man meant. "It's like the troll incident, isn't it?"

"Ye—wait, troll incident? I'm not familiar with that." Flibbert Flourish seemed a bit discouraged that his brilliant example had been brushed off, but he also appeared happy that Harry was trying to understand.

"Well, back in first year, my friends Ron and Hermione and I ended up facing a mountain troll in the girls' bathroom. We were stuck in there and couldn't get out and none of us knew how to fight a troll. I tried shoving my wand up its nose, but fat lot of good that did. Luckily, Ron dropped the troll's club on its head and that knocked it out long enough for the teachers to find us."

"But maybe if we knew more about trolls, we'd have known a spell to try. Or, if there was a weak point to aim at, like the head instead of the chest or something. I dunno. But there wasn't anyone there to ask, and you don't want to learn by demonstration on a troll. If we'd had a book ahead of time, we wouldn't have had so much trouble."

Mr. Flourish spluttered and choked. He seemed not to be able to say anything for a long moment. Finally, he cleared his throat.

"Er, yes, exactly my point, lad." For some reason, Mr. Flourish appeared dazed. Harry wasn't sure why, since his story was pretty similar to Mr. Flourish's example, except that _his_ story made sense because it had actually happened.

Mr. Flourish wandered off without seeming to notice where he was going. He called over his shoulder for Harry to feel free to explore a bit or to see Madam Beatrice for some "supplemental reading" if he was interested. He seemed to forget all about the special project he had wanted Harry's help on in the first place. Fidget followed his father silently toward the back of the store, muttering about crazy Gryffindors all the while.

Harry wasn't sure what their problem was, but perhaps they were suffering after-effects from the hexes they'd been under.

oOo

Harry wandered around the aisles aimlessly, not too eager to get his "supplemental reading list." Because these were adults, and they would probably pick books like _From Amortentia to Zucchini Cake: The Complete Wizard's Compendium of Supplies for a Successful Dinner Party_. Harry wasn't entirely sure what amortentia was, and he really didn't want to know what zucchini cake was either, so he made a mature judgment call and decided to browse the books on his own.

The first book Harry found that he knew he just had to buy was _Untraceable Hexes for Your Odious Muggle Relatives and Neighbors_ by Torvol Rile Madmod. _Wow!_ thought Harry. _It's like the book was written just for me!_ Then he saw another book that pushed the first right out of his mind. It was in the quidditch section on a special display and had a shiny red cover, with glittery gold letters embossing the title: _Super Secret Seeker Skills to Slaughter Slytherin_. The best part, Harry knew, was that because the moves were super secret, Malfoy would never know what hit him!

Harry was very excited. He never knew this bookstore thing could be so much fun.

A chorus of growls and snarls coming from around the corner cut Harry's happy musings short. Having no sense of self-preservation, Harry naturally walked straight toward the noise, only to find the woman from earlier that morning (Madam Beatrice, he thought) fending off a pen of—_books?_ Harry looked closer. They were, in fact, multiple copies of the same _Monster Book of Monsters_ that Hagrid had given him. Unfortunately, the witch in question didn't have an old belt to tie each one up with, and for some reason, poking the books with a long stick only seemed to irritate them.

Suddenly, one of the books proved more agile than the others. It threw itself in the air and grabbed hold of the stick. The witch shrieked and unfortunately swung the stick wildly, trying to get the book off.

The book flew off.

It crashed into one of the posts holding the pen together to contain the books. Immediately, the other books swarmed the weak spot in the fence. The next few minutes went by very quickly for Harry. He saw the witch's eyes widen in horror. He saw the creepy young man, Fidget, turn back toward the display area and start grinning. He saw the books overcome the barrier and begin stampeding nearby customers.

Later, Harry would never know quite what instinct prompted him. He grabbed a nearby sheet of canvas sitting on some packaging materials and threw it on the largest concentration of books. To his immense surprise, the books immediately quieted down.

The other books took advantage of his momentary distraction to fling themselves at bookshelves, customers, and any furniture they could reach. Harry heard Fidget whoop in delight and looked up to see the man conjure a lasso, which he skillfully looped around a rogue book. The book bucked and spun but Fidget held on and managed to successfully wrangle the book back into the pen, which the witch had apparently had the presence of mind to repair.

Harry grudgingly admitted that maybe Fidget wasn't quite so creepy after all.

"Potter! Catch!" As though he could hear Harry thinking about him (and wasn't that a scary thought), Fidget tossed a new lasso to Harry. Harry caught it and grinned, before throwing himself enthusiastically into the role of book cowboy. Seeing his eagerness, the other patrons decided this must be some sort of new game. Once they joined in with conjured lassos, the books were quickly put back in their pen. After all the books were accounted for, the witch hurriedly conjured another canvas sheet like the one Harry had used earlier. She covered the entire pen with it, and slowly the restless books calmed down.

Although the action itself was over, the patrons decided this interlude had been so exciting that they all conjured chairs and tea and spent the next hour happily reliving their moments of glory during the book stampede. Harry greatly enjoyed re-enacting some of the more impressive catches with the other customers, whose initial awe of the Boy-Who-Lived quickly faded into the camaraderie that comes from adrenaline and sports.

On an interesting side note, one or two minor disagreements over strategies and skill arose, leading to calls for a rematch. And thus, the famous First Annual Monster Book Wrangling Rodeo was born.

oOo

A short while later, Harry wandered back over to the _Monster Book_ display. He could hear the witch who had started the whole event muttering angrily to herself. Apparently, she was still a bit riled up by the whole thing. He made a note of certain words to look up for later; they sounded quite interesting and he was sure Hermione would be impressed with his new vocabulary. The woman continued grumbling. "Who named it that? Bad enough to carry a book about monsters—I don't know what Hogwarts faculty is coming to—but to name it after monsters too! Well, that's just asking for trouble."

She finally turned from the pen and saw Harry standing there listening curiously. She flushed and demanded, "What are you doing there, young man? Oh! Mr. Potter! Sorry, I didn't recognize you for a minute."

Harry watched in bemusement as the witch immediately began trying to style her hair, which had gone quite frizzy in the excitement. She soon gave up with a huff and said, "I doubt you remember me from this morning, but I'm Beatrice Blotts, co-owner of this establishment. Thank you for your help earlier. I doubt we would have subdued those things nearly as easily without your quick thinking."

"Ah, thanks, Madam Blotts."

"Oh, call me Madam Beatrice. I insist," she simpered before continuing with a rush of words. "Honestly, whoever chose that book for the Care of Magical Creatures class simply wasn't thinking clearly. It's a nightmare!"

"You mean that's the new textbook for the Care of Magical Creatures class?" Harry asked. He felt a bit odd to know that Hagrid had bought him a textbook for his birthday. I mean, he hadn't really liked the way the book tried to bite him anyway, but now to hear that it was just a school supply… Harry admitted to himself that he felt a bit let down.

"Yes, supposedly there's a new professor this year, and he only just now picked the book even though the other book lists already went out. I have to say, if this is an indication of the new teacher's judgment, then mark my words, there will be maimings by the very first day of class!"

Harry paled at her words. He didn't want to get maimed. Maybe Hagrid knew that and bought him the book so he could prepare.

Then again, it was more likely that Hagrid just didn't think anyone could get hurt. He'd probably think the book was as charming as a baby dragon.

Meanwhile, Beatrice was continuing her rant against the _Monster Book_ and any professor foolish enough to assign it. Harry was once again impressed with her vocabulary and wondered why Hermione never used such creative words. Maybe she just didn't know them yet. He'd have to offer to teach her.

It looked like Madam Beatrice was shaping up to be a first-rate acquaintance, as adults went. She'd already mentioned several new bits of information, without even seeming to realize it, and she'd taught Harry some new words.

"—and the author is clearly a trumped up piece of fecal matter shat by the hybrid love-spawn of a goat and a flobberworm or he'd have better sense than to name a book about monsters after monsters. No wonder they're all so wild!"

"Huh?" Harry asked, once again displaying his trademark eloquence. "I don't get it. If the book is about monsters, why shouldn't it be named that? I mean, how else would you know what it was? And how exactly can a book be wild anyway? It's just a book."

"Just a book? _Just a book?_" Madame Beatrice spluttered with shock and Harry sadly wondered why he seemed to have that effect on so many people. "Young man, these are _magic_ books. Of course they take on the traits of their names and contents. That's probably why your trick with the canvas worked earlier."

"What? I was just trying to cover them up to keep them from biting. I didn't know it would calm them down."

Madam Beatrice gave Harry a measuring look as though doubting his proclamation of ignorance. "Well, if that is the case, you have exceptionally good luck and strong magical instincts. It's just fortunate for us that the books must include enough information about avian species to have adopted some avian personality traits. Surely you know that some birds calm down when their cages are covered, yes? Apparently, that is a trait the book shares too."

She seemed to think about this for a minute. "Perhaps we've been taking the wrong track with these books. We should investigate to see what other traits they share; it could make stocking and selling the books a great deal easier."

Harry paused to consider what she had just said. He supposed it made a quirky kind of sense from a magical perspective, but it still seemed weird to think of books having characteristics like that. Between being locked in the cupboard and Dudley's contempt for anything educational, Harry had never really had a chance to become attached to reading. He'd always had to make up his own stories using his imagination alone. Probably if he asked Hermione, she would say "Of course books have personalities. Honestly, Harry, everyone knows that. It's in Hogwarts: A History." Well, maybe not that last part.

"So books can actually have personality? Isn't that Dark, though?" Harry asked, thinking of a certain diary.

"No, no. It's Dark if you magically imbue a book with too much of _your_ identity—or anyone else's identity really, because somebody had to lose a bit of their magic or their soul in order for the book to steal it. But all books have inherent personality based on their content, style, and subject matter. Why, Gilderoy Lockhart (the famous author, dear, have you met him? Such a scandal!) wrote an autobiography that positively sparkles! It even sighs out little musical notes when you open and close it. Very impressive from a literary standpoint, although of course his actions were deplorable.

"On the other hand, Dark Arts books have fairly nasty personalities. Unavoidable, of course. Writing about such nasty things is bound to taint the very parchment and ink you're using! Guaranteed! That's why I've never met a Dark Arts book I liked; they're all screaming-in-agony types of books, and that's just really not my thing, unless of course there are feathers and whipped—" Beatrice cut herself off suddenly remembering whom she was talking to. "Not that we carry any such books at Flourish and Blotts. _We_ are a respectable establishment—not like some I could name, mind you."

"Like that Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley?"

Beatrice jumped slightly and gave a small shriek. "Goodness, where did you even hear of that shop? No, no, Harry, Mr. Potter that is, you shouldn't even _talk_ about places like that. _Certainly_ not respectable, I assure you." And she eyed Harry doubtfully, as though suddenly calling in to question his respectability and wondering whether he needed to be (_gently_, of course, wouldn't do to make a scene) herded out of her store before he began infecting her darling books with some rogue form of, well, roguishness.

Harry was not all that eager to leave his best source of uncensored information (although if Hermione ever learned how reluctant he was to leave a bookstore… well, Harry didn't want to think of the consequences), so he tried to quickly think of an excuse.

"Yeah, exactly, it's awful. I mean, I _heard _it was awful. I don't know myself, but someone… this guy I heard was talking about it. He said it was really… disrespectful. I mean, dis-respectable. Yeah, and I remembered it because I thought if it was that dodgy then I'd have to… ah, never go there. That's why I remembered it. So I would never go there, by accident or something."

By the end of his explanation, Harry was sweating and thinking _Lame, Potter. Could you get any more unbelievable? _But miraculously, his story seemed to immediately soothe Madame Beatrice's ruffled feathers.

"Of course, that makes perfect sense. I don't know _what_ I was thinking for a minute there. You are the Boy-Who-Lived, after all."

Harry sighed. He really, really hated that title. Not only was it vaguely insulting (what teenager likes being referred to as a _boy_?), but it also gave people all sorts of expectations and images until Harry began to feel smothered. He was just a regular guy. Besides, all this superstition was ridiculous. It was the same thing with Voldemort—saying the name of something wasn't going to suddenly call down lightning bolts….

Harry blinked. He didn't _think_ it would call down lightning bolts. But this was the Wizarding World. Two years ago, he wouldn't have thought that people could actually fly on broomsticks, of all things.

Perhaps it would be best to check.

"Madame Beatrice?"

"Yes, dear?" she said absently, running her fingers lovingly down the spine of Gilbone's _Anatomy for Rituals_.

"I was wondering, is it dangerous or something to say the names of things in the Wizarding World? Like with Borgin and—er, that shop we were talking about. It seems very confusing to go around trying to avoid saying what something is. So I was just wondering if there was a reason to not say some things."

Madame Beatrice Blotts paused and, for the first time in her adult life, found some of her mental architecture begin the slow process of grinding into a new position. She blinked. "That's a fascinating idea. Well, of course, names have power. There are all sorts of naming rituals to increase your own magical power, but they're all very dangerous because if someone _else_ gets a hold of your name, then they can use that power against you. And names in general can take on magical characteristics until they begin to define whatever they name-- like the _Monster Book of Monsters_. If it were just the _Book of Monsters_, it wouldn't be quite so wild, but the author _chose_ to call it the _Monster Book_."

"But," she paused for emphasis to make sure she had Harry's full attention, "by and large for the average witch and wizard, I suppose most names really only have the power we as a society ascribe to them."

She was almost breathless with excitement at explaining her revelation to such an eager listener. "Like that Lockhart fellow. We all thought he was so powerful that just the mention of his name made witches swoon. Not that I ever… _other witches_ might have swooned; I really couldn't say for sure. But! All along, he was really just a fraud! He never had any actual magical power, so the only way he could have caused so many witches to fall under his spell is if the magic _belonged to the witches_. Oh my, we—I mean, they—must have somehow unintentionally opened a Swathold Link to feed a percentage of power to him, which _naturally _created an emotional feedback loop. The power was never his at all!"

She seemed lost in some sort of epiphany, while Harry was frankly just plain lost. It seemed pretty clear to him that people had been suckered in by Lockhart and had gone a bit half-baked, but he really didn't see what that had to do with names and power and possibly getting struck by lightning bolts of doom for saying the wrong name.

Harry waited for a few more minutes, but when Madame Beatrice pulled a rumpled bit of parchment and a quill from her apron and began scribbling furiously, he thought it best to get her back on track before he ran out of time. He reminded her of his original question.

"Well, with your average human name, it's not a problem, although of course, some words are simply not fit for polite society. But you don't really run in to problems until you start using names for some of the older demons and vampires. That can actually wind up opening a summoning link—very, very Dark. No, we don't want to do that, do we?"

"And it's said that very powerful wizards can actually hear it if you say their name from afar… but I suppose you'd know more about that than I would, dear." She broke off to wait for his reply.

"Why? I'm not very powerful. I'm just… average. Just Harry. But if you're asking, I've never heard anyone 'say my name from afar' or anything like that." Harry tugged on his hair self-consciously.

Madame Beatrice's eyes widened. "Not powerful? You survived an unforgivable curse! It's called _unforgivable_ for a reason! And there were rumors that you faced some sort of a monster just this past year…." She trailed off meaningfully, obviously waiting for Harry to confirm or deny this report.

"Yeah, there was this basilisk, but I —" Harry never had a chance to finish his disavowal of power, as Madame Beatrice had screamed and most unaccountably but dramatically fainted, managing to knock over an entire shelf of books in the process.

Harry stared at her prone figure. Then he slowly raised his eyes to find every customer in the store standing stock-still, staring at the spectacle.

Harry sighed. _Why does this always happen to me?_

Mr. Flibbert sighed. _Why does she always do that?_

Fidget snickered. _I like this kid._

oOo

Author's Notes:

1. I'm assuming some form of Lockhart's Obliviation scheme has become public since he had to be admitted to St. Mungo's long-term care facility. Think about if a celebrity checks into rehab suddenly—it doesn't stay secret.

2. When Madame Beatrice asked Harry about facing a monster, she was referring to the few snippets of conversation she'd overheard earlier about Harry and his friends facing a troll. She didn't hear all the details, and she assumed Harry was exaggerating a bit. Imagine her shock when he started talking about a basilisk instead!

3. Reviews are greatly appreciated. Hope you enjoyed it—just wait until part 2 of this chapter. I split it up because the entire chapter took on a life of it's own and ended up at over 10,000 words. In part 2, (some of) the truth comes out and a certain nosy reporter decides to get involved.


	4. Books and Basilisks Part 2

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Harry Potter and the Diagon Alley Small Business Association

Books and Basilisks pt 2

Note: This chapter wound up getting bit more serious than the last, just to let you know. On the bright side, neither Harry nor Dumbledore ends up getting tarred and feathered by an angry mob. Well, not yet, anyway.

Also, I posted chapter one of a new story, Honor Among Thieves, a HP/ Leverage crossover.

oOo

"So let me get this straight," said Mr. Flibbert Flourish sternly. "You were just having an innocent, theoretical conversation about the power of names when suddenly— apropos of nothing—Madame Beatrice fainted."

"Yeah, that's pretty much it. I mean, she'd just been asking about the monster I had to fight last year, and I'd just told her it was a basilisk, but—"

Mr. Flibbert shrieked.

A witch standing nearby fainted.

Just for the fun of it (parallelism, he would call it), Fidget knocked over a stack of books.

Harry sighed again.

oOo

"A Basilisk? A BASILISK? What—how is that even—" Mr. Flourish had come around a few minutes after Madame Beatrice, and now all three of them were in the sitting area of the store, magically enlarged so that the sudden wellspring of customers that had appeared in the bookstore could fit in too. In fact, Harry was pretty sure he had even seen Bill Bludgins from Quality Quidditch lurking in the background. It seemed that at least half of Diagon Alley was eagerly awaiting his tale.

Mr. Fidget brought some tea to help revive the fainters. When Harry asked if he could have some, Fidget shook his head. "It's medicinal," he said solemnly, adding some amber liquid to it that made Mr. Flibbert cough as he swallowed. Harry figured it probably tasted pretty bad (most medicines did), so he was grateful for Fidget's warning.

"Now, now, Flibbert, there's no need to get so riled up," said a regal looking witch with long dark hair. "After all, Mr. Potter never said how large the basilisk was. And furthermore, Mr. Potter seems like a very levelheaded young man. I'm sure he of all people knows that he just needed to charm a rooster to crow within hearing distance of the basilisk."

"That may be, Tamara," said another wizard faintly, "but I'm still stuck on the fact that there was a basilisk in Hogwarts, and my son never mentioned it to me. Why weren't we told?"

Everyone turned as one to Harry, who gulped. For the first time, it occurred to him that maybe he shouldn't be talking about this. It wasn't really his fault; adults always had such weird reactions and got really upset over the smallest things. _Too late now_, he thought sullenly_, I'll just have to tell them about it, unless I can distract them somehow. Think, Potter!_

"Ah, sorry sir, do I know you?" Harry asked, frantically trying to come up with a diversion.

"My apologies, Mr. Potter. I'm Doc Boot of Boot's Leather and Luggage. We're right next door to Trunk's Shoes and Boots, down near the tea shop," the wizard explained. "I think you know my son, Terry. He's in your year at Hogwarts. Ravenclaw."

"Oh, of course, Terry," Harry said enthusiastically, despite the fact that he wasn't sure he'd ever talked to Terry Boot for more than five minutes at a time. "How's he doing? Having a good summer then? Tell me about it."

"Oh, he's doing well. He'll be thrilled to know you asked about him—big fan of yours, my Terry. Why, it seems like just yesterday he was playing with his Harry Potter action dolls. Actually, come to think of it, that may have been yesterday…."

"_Harry Potter action dolls_? There are _dolls?_ Of _me_?! Why didn't anyone think to tell me that?" His terror (of public speaking, not of the basilisk) completely vanished in the face of this new horror. Harry was sure his eyes were about to fall out of his face, and he thought that might actually be preferable to picturing his classmates playing with _dolls_ of him.

Then he had another thought that made him feel nauseous and a bit dirty.

_Oh, God… Ginny._

He groaned and put his head in his hands, but not before seeing that most of the adults around him were a bit embarrassed and trying to avoid his eyes. Well except for Fidget, who was smirking unrepentantly.

_Traitor. He'd better be careful or I'll sic the Weasley twins on his precious bookstore._ Harry was getting more in tune with his bloodthirsty side every minute. He wondered if Tom Riddle had gone through something like this to turn him evil too.

"Er, they're not really dolls per se, as much as enchanted miniature figures," Doc Boot said nervously. "They're really quite adorable—some of them even speak. I can have Terry bring some of his by to show you—"

"Er, that's okay. No, thanks." Remembering his plan to distract them, he swallowed his nausea and added, "Do you know if Boot—I mean Terry—has finished his summer homework yet? Gosh, that potions work sure was a killer."

Yes, Harry was really just that desperate that he would rather discuss his most hated subject with a boy who possibly had creepy stalker tendencies than continue the previous conversation.

"Oh, yes of course. Terry was very excited about that assignment. I can floo him and you two could—"

"Perhaps you can catch up with your school chums later, Mr. Potter," suggested the regal witch in a tone that said _this is not a suggestion_. "For now, I think we would appreciate an answer to Doc's question. How is it that none of us have heard of this basilisk?"

_Drat_, thought Harry. _So close_. On the other hand, given a choice between explaining to a room full of strangers how he had hunted down a fifty-foot long basilisk using his Parselmouth abilities or having to picture Terry Boot and Ginny Weasley having Harry Potter doll playdates, while desperately trying not to think about exactly what they had forced his poor, innocent doll-self to do, he thought he actually preferred the basilisk.

"Well," he said consideringly, "I suppose nobody mentioned it because it ended up not being a big deal. I mean, 'no harm, no foul,' right? Nobody was killed. Well, a bunch of people got petrified by the Basilisk, and I guess Myrtle died, but—"

"Petrified?!"

"Died?!"

"Not a big deal?!"

The black-haired witch growled and several of the others standing nearby looked like they were about to grab the torches and pitchforks if that's what it took to get their answers. Perhaps Harry had underestimated their school pride a bit. Still, it was a bit hypocritical that they could get all worked up about a stupid basilisk, but he'd never seen any of them supporting the school at quidditch matches.

He risked a quick glance around and saw everyone staring at him with an intensity that frankly disturbed him. Being the center of attention on Privet Drive was usually not a good thing if your name was Harry Potter. Judging by their expressions, though, Harry wasn't getting out of this without talking. He could try to distract them and slip out, but he suspected they would just follow him back to the Cauldron. Possibly with torches and pitchforks.

Except for Fidget, who was still snickering. For some reason, the man seemed to find Harry endlessly amusing, and Harry was beginning to wonder if the man had some sort of facial tic or possibly a mental problem. Not that that would stop him from asking the Weasley twins to wreak havoc to their destructive little hearts' content. Dungbombs seemed a bit simplistic, but Harry was pretty sure Zonko's made an ink-vanishing potion. If he bought it in bulk and had the Weasleys use some dungbombs to explode the potion all over the books…

Harry was a bit vindictive like that sometimes.

Looking at the angry mob surrounding him, Harry grudgingly gave in. He told the whole story from the beginning (and by "whole story," he meant only the absolute bare bones of the tale), although he tried to put the focus on the funny bits, like Lockhart and the pixies, and he definitely didn't mention Ginny Weasley's name. No way would he voluntarily drag someone else into this mess, even if she was doing possibly unspeakable things to a miniature likeness of his body. It was hard to dodge so many of the explanations, but Harry had years of practice and his audience seemed too appalled by the basilisk to ask questions.

When he was done, the crowd around him was silent for a bit. Harry wasn't sure if they were still in shock about the basilisk or terrified of his Parselmouth abilities (he'd tried to avoid mentioning that, but the regal witch had eyed him archly and he found himself blurting it out like an idiot).

"Well that was—enlightening," Fidget said blankly, for once not smiling.

"Mr. Potter, a word, please? I'm Rita Skeeter with the Daily Prophet," a nosy witch with ugly spectacles and too much make-up burst in, a parchment and quickly moving quill floating next to her. "Tell me, how does it feel to be a Parselmouth? Is it true you've been experimenting with Dark rituals? Do you—"

"Oh, Rita, give it a rest," snorted the regal witch, whose name was Tamara something, if Harry had heard right. She casually plucked the quill out of the air and snapped it in half, earning a death glare from the reporter. "Parselmouths are just wizards and witches who can talk to snakes. Despite what the ignorant masses may believe," and here she looked condescendingly at Rita, "the ability itself is not Dark."

"Dear me, of course not!" exclaimed Madame Beatrice, who had rallied her spirits at this unprovoked attack on her favorite new book-lover-to-be. "Of course, the vast majority of Parselmouths have been insane, power-hungry Dark Lords, but … let me think. Why, there was Sackson the Silly who used the ability to publish _1001 Jokes and Puns That Snakes Find Hilarious_. Or, if you prefer, Anise Ablashun, the famous healer who used Parseltongue to gather Runespoor eggs; she actually created the Cognizus Potion, which helps reverse damage from backfired Obliviations."

"Really?" Harry exclaimed in shocked relief. Everyone turned to stare at him again. Darn it, when would he learn to stop blurting stuff out? "Sorry, it's just, I never knew that. I mean, I'd never even heard of Parseltongue until this year. I never really used it much growing up. Snakes are pretty boring, honestly. There was this one garden snake that just kept going on and on about how pretty his scales were…."

Several of the crowd had developed facial tics by this point, but Harry was too caught up in his rant to notice. He had a bit of steam to blow off, here. He'd spent nearly the entire year getting ostracized because his classmates were apparently too stupid to actually fact check before running away in terror. Come to think of it, how had _Hermione_ missed that?

"…And then I got to Hogwarts, and everyone started hating me when they found out. I still don't understand why, but they hated me anyway. It was like, one day I was Harry Potter, and the next, even my dorm mates were looking at me like—like I was going to murder them or something. People backed away from me in the halls, and once, somebody threw bubotuber pus at me from around the corner." He pulled his sleeve up a few inches to show some splotchy scars speckling his arm. "I actually still have the scars from that—they're kind of cool looking. Wanna see?"

Harry figured this was the height of generosity, as the collective Wizarding World seemed to have some sort of kinky scar fetish.

To his horror, several of the witches in the crowd burst in to tears. Mr. Flourish seemed to be snarling to himself about "bigoted snot-nosed brats, I should sell them the _Venomous Book of Venoms, Poisons, and Acids._ See how they like it." On the bright side, the spectacle-wearing reporter seemed to take stock of the crowd's protective emotions and change her approach accordingly.

"And how did it make you feel, Harry, to be so cruelly betrayed by your classmates at the first sign of danger? What's your reaction to your professors' cold indifference to your tragic plight, as they callously ignored the ignorant prejudice and torture you were subjected to?"

"Wait- what?" Harry said, shocked again. _That's not what I said! Tragic plight—oh bugger._ On the other hand, Harry couldn't help but wonder. If the knowledge about Parselmouths was as widespread as it seemed, why _hadn't_ any of his professors said anything? Why hadn't Headmaster Dumbledore done something? He was the headmaster, and besides that, he was Dumbledore! In Harry's opinion, he could do anything.

_Except defeat Quirrel. Except protect Hagrid. Except save Ginny._

"I—I don't know," said Harry, feeling a bit lost all of a sudden. He was unprepared when this answer seemed to upset his audience even more. Soon, Harry was surrounded by overly-emotional wizards and witches all wanting to give him a hug or shake his hand and assure him that, no matter what those other wizards and witches might have said, they knew he wasn't Dark. They were sure that he would only use his snake-talking abilities (and here many of the audience stuttered nervously) for the Light side, to defeat basilisks and rescue little girls.

Of course, the fact that many of the wizards in the crowd were still riding an adrenaline-high from their shared book wrangling earlier probably helped his popularity as much as anything.

And, at the end of the day, he was still their savior. Naturally, he would use his abilities to save them. For the rest of his life, apparently, as it seemed they had his destiny planned out for him.

And Harry _really_ needed to find a way to teach the Wizarding World about the concept of inappropriate touching. Did these people think that teenagers enjoyed getting mobbed by random strangers offering to comfort them and/or have their babies?

Harry idly wondered if the Wizarding World had sexual harassment lawsuits. Or copyright laws, for that matter.

_Still_, thought Harry meditatively, _as awful as this is, it's the first time that being the Boy-Who-Lived has actually helped me somehow. These people may not care a pig's tail about "Harry," but they seem pretty supportive of the Boy. They actually stopped that Skeeter cow from slamming me like I bet she was going to._

Despite himself, Harry felt a small bit of warmth at that. He also began to wonder what else "the Boy" might be useful for.

_Maybe I can get a discount on that ink-vanishing potion from Zonkos_.

Harry grinned evilly.

oOo

Flibbert Flourish ducked out of the crowd swarming young Harry Potter. He felt a twinge of guilt at abandoning the boy to the maudlin horde, but he knew that it was in Potter's best interests that he catch up with his current target.

Besides, he had a sneaking suspicion that Mr. Potter was somehow responsible for either the mayhem caused by the book stampede or for the petitions he was now flooded with to schedule a "re-match."

"Mendacius. A moment of your time, please." He hurried to reach his quarry.

Mendacius Ledger, owner and editor-in-chief of The Daily Prophet wizarding newspaper, turned back to face Flibbert. He tapped his foot impatiently. News waited for no wizard, and if he knew Skeeter (which he did, entirely too well for his own peace of mind), she would be drafting an expose already. He shuddered internally, half appalled at what they were about to do—this would surely rock the foundations of the wizarding world!—and half gleeful—this would _rock_ the wizarding _world!!_

If he'd had a heart, it would be warmed with affection for Skeeter's investigatory genius. Fortunately, he'd sacrificed that useless organ a few years back in exchange for a thousand galleons, a promotion to chief editor, and three small goats.

"Mendacius, I'm sure that the lovely Ms. Skeeter is even now drafting a story about this shocking revelation, but I'm equally sure that you yourself are wise enough and experienced enough to see the immediate folly in such an act," Flibbert made sure to imbue his words with the stern authority he usually reserved for people who spilled butterbeer on his rare collection items.

"Of course, of course, but I'm in a bit of a hurry—wait, what's that you said? Folly, eh?" he looked at the other man doubtfully. "Not sure that publishing the story of the century is 'folly,' Flibbert. I mean, a basilisk, the Boy-Who-Lived, betrayal at Hogwarts: it's epic, man!"

"Hmm, yes, but there is one small catch. I'm sure you've noticed it."

"Of course I have! I'm a reporter, can't slip anything by me. But, just to make sure you caught it, why don't you tell me what you're thinking. I'll tell you if you're on the right track." He attempted an avuncular smile at the other man, which ended up looking ridiculous, since Flibbert Flourish was both older and more austere than his companion.

"You have no proof," Flibbert said with exasperation. He paused as Mendacius slowly turned the unfamiliar concept of 'proof' around in his brain. "We've no cause to doubt Mr. Potter's story, of course, but if you are going to start attacking Hogwarts, you will certainly want documentation, won't you? And there are still so many questions I'm sure Ms. Skeeter is dying to poke her nose—I mean, investigate. What were the faculty doing during all of this? Which students were injured? Who was behind all of this? And is there any connection to You-Know-Who, the last proclaimed heir of Slytherin?"

Mendacius twitched and bounced from one leg to the other. Such a dilemma! He was never one to delay talk of a scandal on such flimsy grounds as lack of proof—after all, his loyal readers had a right to know, even if the story wasn't strictly true. On the other hand, it just figured that that bookworm Flourish would raise such daring questions. If he could implicate one of the professors! A link to You-Know-Who! His sales would triple!

It would be better than the exposé he'd written on Abraxius Malfoy's underground house-elf fighting ring.

Finally, he made a decision. "I'll have Rita poke around a bit. We'll give it a few days to talk to the students, see if we can track down some of the faculty during the summer. Filch is usually easy to bribe—er, interview."

Flibbert let out the breath he'd been holding once Mendacius turned to walk away again. Well, he'd bought the boy some time, at least. He could tell that Potter was uncomfortable with the attention he'd received today. He wished he could spare the boy the mania he knew was sure to come, but such a story could never really be suppressed. At least this way the Prophet would be more likely to print something resembling the truth. Still, he'd need to talk to Tom about helping the boy come to terms with his fame. Fast!

oOo

"Harry? Are you in here, lad?" Tom poked his head around the doorway into his favorite young guest's room.

"Half a mo', Tom. I just grabbed a quick shower before dinner," Harry's voice came from inside the bathroom. A moment later, Harry himself came out, still toweling his hair dry.

Tom frowned, both at the boy's lack of grooming skills (although it's not like he could use a hair drying spell over the summer anyway) and at his awful clothes. He made a mental note to discuss muggle fashions with the boy. Everyone knew that muggles had odd taste in clothes, but these rags were just ridiculous; Tom wondered if Adam Brown had been right after all. He hoped that the boy would be willing to buy some proper wizarding clothes this summer. Merlin knew that Madame Malkin would have his head otherwise.

"Did you need something, Tom? I can come help with dinner if you're short-handed," Harry offered helpfully, bringing Tom back to the present.

"No, the elf's got it all under control," Tom replied cautiously. He was trying to figure out how to broach the subject everyone in his pub had been talking about today. "So, how was Flourish and Blotts? I heard it was a bit… exciting."

"You could say that," Harry snorted in disgust. He proceeded to summarize the day's events for Tom. "I hate it, Tom. I hate the attention, the hopes, the staring, the stark terror. But then, part of me is wondering if any of the people in that store would've been nearly as friendly if it weren't for that whole Boy-Who-Lived nonsense. I just don't know what to do."

"I don't know that there's much you _can_ do at this point, other than what you're already doing. The way I see it, Harry, you have two problems. The first is that people just don't know you. Now, it's not your fault, but having been raised among muggles, you haven't been around for them to get gradually adjusted to. Think about when you first started at Hogwarts. Did people stare and whisper and whatnot?"

"Yeah, it drove me nuts. I mean, I had no idea what I was doing. I got lost maybe fifty times that first week alone. But somehow everywhere I went, even if I had no idea where I was, people kept staring and talking."

"But after a few weeks…" Tom prompted him.

Harry thought about it. "Yeah, it died down. I mean, people still freaked out after the Troll thing and definitely after the first quidditch match, but overall there was less of the whispering."

Tom made a second mental note to ask about the "Troll thing" later. He wasn't sure he could handle any more shocks today.

He cleared his throat. "Well, I think that's part of your answer right there. People will get used to you as they see you more. That's where spending time on the Alley can really help you. You're not being shepherded around by an entourage or an escort, you're just being you. Give them a chance to see 'just Harry,' and maybe they'll forget to go quite so mental over the Boy-Who-Lived."

Harry smiled somewhat weakly at Tom. He wasn't sure what instinct had prompted him to actually open up to the pub owner, but something about the man's unflappable friendliness made him the perfect antidote to today's craziness. And he had some good advice. If Harry could wait out the insanity over the next few days, people should get more used to seeing him in public.

Harry grinned hopefully to himself before focusing on Tom's equally friendly smile. Then he frowned slightly. "Wait, you said there were _two_ problems. What's the second?"

"The second problem, Harry, is pretty simple. As long as you go around doing things like slaying a basilisk, people are going to stare, Boy-Who-Lived or not." Tom smiled at Harry's disappointed groan. "It should still get better. As you get older, people will start to respect you as an adult. Right now, people looking at you still see – well, they see the Boy. And for a child—sorry, teenager—to accomplish such feats borders on the miraculous."

Tom wondered if this would be the time for a few small hints. "You could probably help speed the process along…." He trailed off as though uncertain.

"What? What do I need to do? Just tell me, and I'll do it," Harry promised eagerly.

"It's a question of image. Right now… well, frankly, Harry, you look like an over-sized, over-worked house elf. And the fact that you've never had a chance to learn what most wizards consider basic knowledge increases the chance that the average witch or wizard will think you are as helpless as a baby puffskein."

He looked at Harry seriously. "So I guess, Harry, the question is: how attached are you to your muggle fashions and culture?"

"Muggle fashion?" Harry asked incredulously. "You can't seriously think that these clothes are considered fashionable to muggles, can you?"

"They're not? Then why, in Merlin's name, are you wearing them?" Tom pretended to be shocked. _So Adam Brown was right; it's not some muggle thing_.

"It's not like I have a choice!" Harry exclaimed angrily. "The Dursleys…."

As Harry trailed off and stared at the floor sullenly, Tom's darker concerns from the last few days came back to him. He knew he would have to tread carefully. Although he was nearly bursting to ask Harry just what his relatives were like, a half-century's worth of pub experience told him to wait.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," Harry muttered. "They're just going to hate me no matter what I do."

Tom waited.

There was an awkward silence.

"Who cares about the Dursleys? I have money at Gringotts. I can just buy some wizarding clothes. The Dursleys don't need to find out… I'll head to Madame Malkins tomorrow. Thanks, Tom."

Tom waited.

Harry stood up like he was going to leave. When he saw Tom still watching him patiently, he flushed. "Look, things with the Dursleys, well, they're not great. I mean, they don't really like magic that much, or me really. Actually, they told me my parents were drunks who died in a car crash—a muggle accident."

He peeked at Tom out of the corner of his eyes. Tom's instincts told him that if he showed any response, even sympathy, Harry would focus on his reactions and on saying what he thought Tom wanted to hear. So Tom kept his expression clear of everything except patience, even though he knew later he would be burning with rage at the implications of what Harry was saying—and what he wasn't saying.

"I don't really want to talk about it, Tom. I mean, it is what it is. I have to go back there every year anyway, so there's no point dwelling on it. There are lots of people who don't – who aren't close to their families. It's not like I like them either. And it could be a lot worse; I could be in an orphanage or something, like… well, like somebody else was.

"So I don't see the point in whining about it. They don't want me and I don't want them, but we're stuck with each other. There's no way out of that until I'm of age."

This was one of the longest speeches Tom had heard Harry make, and he thought carefully about how to reply. He knew they had barely scratched the surface; saying "they don't want me" doesn't explain why they wouldn't buy him decent clothes, or why he looked half-starved when he arrived. And Tom wasn't sure about why Harry thought there was "no way out" when any wizarding family in Britain would happily adopt the boy.

But Tom knew he couldn't say any of that. Not yet. Maybe one day Harry would trust him enough to tell him his hidden pains, but not yet. Tom was surprised to realize that he wanted that trust. It wasn't just a matter of professional integrity; it was Harry himself.

Tom wanted to deserve Harry's trust.

He cleared his throat. "I'm not going to try to tell you that it's alright for people to lie to you or treat you like that. But I'm also not going to try to force you into telling me anything you don't want to.

"Everybody has stuff in their past they don't want to talk about. You, me, hell, probably even Albus Dumbledore. I'm proud of your maturity, Harry, of the way you are focusing on what you can do instead of what you can't.

"But, one day, Harry, you're going to need to stop holding it secret inside of you." At Harry's startled expression, he nodded. "When you keep your pain and your shame quiet, it gives them power over you. Your feelings bubble up like a potion with a lid on—if you took the lid off, a lot of that stuff might boil away. But with the lid on, one day it might explode.

Harry looked a bit worried at this, but mostly just thoughtful. Tom was surprised; he thought he'd been coming on a bit strong with that potions analogy, and most teenagers didn't take being lectured well. He wondered if maybe the day's events had shaken Harry up as much as his audience.

Tom would have been less impressed with his own advice had he known that Harry's pensive look was the result of his pondering the likelihood that anyone who had been through Hogwarts in the last twenty years would even consider taking any advice that came in the form of a potions comparison. Harry was slightly worried that some people might actually be foolish enough to consider the advice simply because it made sense, completely overlooking the inherent evil of potions.

"Look, I'm here if you want to talk, but I'm also here if you don't," Tom continued, fortunately oblivious to Harry's thoughts. "Either way, I've got a willing ear and a lifetime's worth of experience in the wizarding world at your disposal. And right now, that experience says it's time to grab some dinner."

Harry's stomach chose that moment to growl, and they both chuckled a bit, the tension broken. As they headed downstairs to get some food, Tom heard a quiet voice behind him.

"Thanks, Tom."

Tom smiled. He'd done good. And he hadn't even gotten blown up in the process. Perhaps that owl-order correspondence course on "So You Want to Run the Leaky Cauldron and Mentor Traumatized Teenagers" had been worth the galleons after all.

oOo

Tom sank gratefully into a chair several hours later. The pub had been packed that evening – no wonder why—and this was the first chance he'd had to stop running from customer to customer.

As was their custom on busy days, several of Tom's friends among the SBA had stopped by for a quick nightcap before heading home. Normally, they'd be gone this time of night, but with all the excitement, they'd stuck around. As Tom finally sat at their table, they all fell silent, trying to figure out where to start with the inevitable questions.

"I'm not sure Harry should go back to the bookstore tomorrow, Flibbert," said Tom.

"I agree," said the bookstore owner quickly. They'd already had cowboy books today. What was next—ninja books? Pirate books? Ninja books fighting pirate books? "It's not that we don't want him there, but I think he has more pressing needs."

He hurriedly relayed the substance of his conversation with Mendacius Ledger, the Daily Prophet owner. "So we have at best a few days before the story breaks officially. In the meantime, people are going to be coming from all parts to try to corner Harry and get comments from him."

"There will probably be a lot of frightened Hogwarts parents," Fidget Flourish said thoughtfully. "And I'd imagine that they're all going to decide to come to the bookstore tomorrow—to buy their children's school texts, naturally."

The group exchanged wry smiles at the thought of a frantic flock of parents flooding Flourish and Blotts in search of Harry Potter.

Madame Malkin clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "As though the poor young man didn't have enough to worry about, what with that awful Black fellow on the loose. I shudder to think what such a depraved criminal would do should he get his hands on young Mr. Potter. Tom, I think we're quite lucky the boy is here with you. Why, those muggles wouldn't be able to protect him from such a Dark wizard!"

"I'm not sure they'd want to," Tom muttered under his breath. Unfortunately, he forgot that both Tamara Twilfitt and Fidget Flourish had exceptionally sharp hearing. Sighing, he explained, "I don't think the boy's muggle family cares for him as much as we've been led to believe. Something's off there, but I can't talk about it."

He clamped his mouth shut and refused to comment further. The others at the table weren't sure how to react, partly due to the fact that they had completely overshot their maximum daily allowance for shock.

Finally Tamara mused, "The more I hear, the more I'm convinced that Dumbledore's got poppies in his pipe. How does he not notice a fifty-foot snake in his school? And he's the one who's always quoted in the Prophet about Harry Potter being safe and happy with his relatives. You want to talk about something being off—well, that man is up to something."

Fidget rolled his eyes. "Not everything is a conspiracy, Tam. Dumbledore may be kooky and he may even be incompetent, but I don't think he's some evil mastermind."

"Well, whatever he is, I suspect we'll be hearing all about it. Mendacius is planning to set that Skeeter witch loose on the Hogwarts faculty," Flibbert successfully headed off the brewing argument between his son and Miss Twilfitt. Age-old debates like "which came first: the phoenix or the egg?" and "Dumbledore: evil or just insane?" never ended well.

"Right now I think we need to focus on what we can do to help Harry in the immediate future. We can't do anything about Black or Dumbledore right now, but we can help keep Harry safe."

"What does he like to do for fun?" Fauna Pevensee asked softly. "Does he like animals? I've seen him with that beautiful snowy owl of his; they seem quite fond of each other. I'm sure that Edgar Eeylop and I would both be willing for Harry to spend time in our shops."

"That's not a bad idea," said Fidget, grinning once more. "Why, Harry definitely has a way with monsters."

He proceeded to regale them with Harry's courageous attempts to subdue the vicious pen of _Monster Book of Monsters_. By the end of his tale, everyone was chuckling at bit.

"That's the spirit I'm talking about! The true competitive edge! Mark my words, that boy will go far in the field of professional quidditch. You should let him come to my store; I'd be happy to get the boy some tips to help him on his way. And we know he plays quidditch, so he'd obviously love working there," Bill Bludgins offered generously. Again. In his mind, there was no greater honor than working in a quidditch shop—except for actually playing quidditch.

"All the quidditch in the world won't help him without a thorough grounding in wizard culture and etiquette—something I'm sure you all know is a bit of a hobby of mine," Fashionista Malkin cut in.

"He probably also needs some money advice," Fidget suggested. "If he didn't even know he was a wizard until a couple of years ago, who's been looking after his account?"

"I think _first_ Harry is going to need help dealing with his image. This story is going to be a big shock for everyone, and all eyes will be on Harry Potter. Right now, he clearly doesn't have the experience or the skill to deal with being in the spotlight. And we can't let him be photographed looking the way he does now; people would think he was some sort of house-elf hybrid!" Flibbert said forcefully, and Tom smiled at someone else using his house-elf comparison.

Tamara jumped in to summarize. "Alright, so in the long run, Harry will need politics, investment advice, wizarding etiquette and—yes, Fauna, Bill—he'll need some time for his hobbies as well. But right now, Flibbert is spot-on: Harry needs help with publicity and his image. Pronto. To me, that suggests two choices: either we can turn him over to Fashionista here for a complete makeover—" she nodded at Madam Malkin who preened under the attention.

"—or we can really throw him to the wolves and ask Mendacius Ledger to take the boy under his wing. It's just the sort of influence Mendacius would revel in and it would ensure that any publicity is good publicity."

Everyone sat in silence for a minute trying to contemplate the best course of action.

"I think we should leave the choice up to Harry himself," Tom concluded finally. "We tried making the decision for him today, and look what that led to. I think our only option is to explain as best we can and hope that he knows himself well enough to know what he needs."

Fidget smirked as the group was blindsided by the novelty of letting their savior make a decision on his own. Such unprecedented daring! Frankly, Fidget wasn't sure the boy would be terribly thrilled to be dumped into either a full-body makeover or a one-on-one with the creepy, self-serving news jackal.

Still, he wondered what the boy would end up choosing.

"Of course, that assumes that Sirius Black doesn't sneak into the Alley and murder us all in our sleep tonight," Tamara pointed out darkly.

On that pleasant thought, they all headed home for an evening's rest after a very busy day.

oOo

(That night, Sirius Black snuck into the Alley and murdered them all in their sleep. The End.)

oOo

Author's Notes:

1. The theory I'm going with is that, although the petrifactions were much discussed, most adults dismissed the rumors about the Chamber of Secrets as a school prank. Which is more plausible: Salazar Slytherin's mythical chamber being discovered over a thousand years later, and his "monster" still alive after all that time OR the Weasley twins, renowned pranksters extraordinaire, stepping over the line? So nobody realized the situation was that serious, and none of the main characters would have explained about the basilisk because it would have focused people on Ginny's role in the events and on Harry's parseltongue abilities.

2. I confess, when I wrote "the collective Wizarding World seemed to have some sort of kinky scar fetish", I had a sudden mental image of Mad Eye Moody running in zig-zags to escape a group of stalker fangirls, all wearing eye patches and t-shirts saying " I (heart) CONSTANT VIGILANCE"

3. I've still got a few more characters waiting for their time in the limelight, and of course Dumbledore's going to get dragged in by the tail end of his sparkly robes if he doesn't have a darn good explanation. BUT, I'd also like to get some feedback on which characters people like/ dislike so far. I don't want to plan a major story arc around a character only to find that everyone hates him/ her.

4. Thanks again to everyone who added the story to their story alerts or took the time to write reviews. I really appreciate hearing from you. Feel free to make suggestions about what trouble you think Harry should get into next. Which option should he choose? Or should he think outside the box?


End file.
